Worth Dying For
by the-everest
Summary: He knows the cost of coveting his brother's fiancée, the future Queen of France. She doesn't know if she can follow her heart, let alone where it would lead her. Does being betrothed in the French Court with an open heart give her the power to make a choice? Rated M for later sexually explicit scenes. Picking up from season 1, episode 8. Characters do not belong to me.
1. He Should Know Better

"Keep your distance from her. No one is worth dying for," his mother spoke evenly, her eyes trained on him with authority and a hint of pity.

So that was it, then... His life was to be ruled by their dictates. He had to heed her, and Francis, and the Catholic Church. As a bastard, he had no chance to even venture to reach out for Mary's heart, a prize altogether too worthy of him.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, trying to avoid Diane's pointed gaze. He'd have closed his eyes to shut her out, were it not for the other woman in his mind, a figure that pained him more than his mother's lofty airs and assumptions.

He nodded curtly and strode past his mother, following a corridor toward the anteroom of the Great Hall. He needed to get out of his head, away from the warnings that treated him as a willful child, and away from his own desires, which felt far from childish burning deep within him. Of course, he was not a child - had not been for a while. Would he have been naïve, his heart would have hinged on the warnings that implied he ruled Mary's heart as well.  
>Why else would his brother, her fiancé, be so worried about her?<p>

Bash had his trust. But that Francis - the rest of them, all of them - did not dare give Mary an opportunity to move past a potential love for him - a more naïve Bash could have made something of that. That is what they were all implying, after all. That he had a chance, that he was winning her heart!

But Sebastian was not the sort to hang on to the good news. Especially when the guilt and suspicion of the love that remained unvoiced was weighing down on him. His temples burned. And as he closed his eyes, the pressure went away. For there was Mary, in a gown of silver trimmed with pale green, her skin flushed and rosy in contrast. She looked up at him breathless, smiling and happy to see him.

The Great Hall's doors opened and guards poured out with as much flourish as their armor allowed. Their clanking snapped Bash out of his reverie.

He looked up to see his brother, the Dauphin, following the procession.

"Bash!" Francis greeted him enthusiastically.

'Has he forgiven me?' Dash thought, grasping his brother's arm firmly.

"Bash, I've had the most... exhilarating day! So much is happening! Mary agreed to... well... marry me!"

"Did she?"

"Yes. Now! We agreed to do it now!"

"So soon?" Bash tried to hide the unease in his voice.

"Ah, well, tomorrow, really. If you're going to be technical about it," he said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Send us the official congratulations before supper, will you?"

"Where are you going?" Bash called out after him.

"I've left my bride unkissed and it is a duty I must attend to with great haste!" Francis replied, bounding down the hall happily.

—

A thrill ran through her body, before he even touched her lips. Lost in his blue eyes, Mary could give herself to him, maybe all too selfishly. In these moments she was not thinking of Scotland and of her claim to England and the cogs that turned the rest of the world.

"Say it again, Francis," she whispered to him breathlessly.

"_Ours_. Our family."

"Oh, it sounds so grand," she smiled, kissing him.

"_Our_ family. Which we will begin building after _our_ wedding. All ours," Francis assured her with little kisses on her neck.

"The family may be ours, but the wedding will be all your Father's. The whole court awaits his orchestration of our union-" Mary found herself suddenly cut off as the lips of her betrothed covered her own.

"Enough talk of my father," Francis broke the kiss with a smirk. "Why don't we go straight to the part where we are making _our_ family?"

Mary's light laughter escaped from between them, bouncing to the corners of the long corridor where they found themselves. Trapped against a square column, with Francis against her and his long blond locks framing her face, she felt that thrill of the promise of "our.

Looking him in the eyes, she felt that thrill run through her body. She was elated to be there, under his gaze, assured that both their hearts would be in this. When Francis dipped his head to make up the empty space between them, she lost her breath to him. He deepened the kiss and she reached out, wrapping him in her arms.

She thought of nothing more than Francis and his dreamed-up life for them. Francis and his warm, searching lips and gold-spun hair. In her mind, there was no room for diplomacy or other people in their world. Only Francis. At first.


	2. The Prophecy Unveiled

"This cannot be," Mary whispered.

Her kiss with Francis felt like something that had happened long ago. Her shadow circled the walls of the Queen's chambers, her richly embroidered skirt sweeping the tapestries underfoot.

"Enough pacing, child," Catherine called to her. "Your lack of comprehension is wearing down my carpets as well as my nerves!"

"But what can be the truth in a mere prediction?" Mary spoke, though not to Catherine. She paused hoping to hear a sign to assure her from somewhere else, maybe between the walls. The room fell silent; Catherine had not demanded of her servants that they start the fireplace in her anticipation to speak to Mary.

"You need to go back to Scotland, to your country and your mother," Catherine urged her, standing from her writing desk.

"Why? How do I even know this is a real threat?" Mary asked, a tone of challenge in her voice.

"If you loved Francis like I do, you would do anything to keep him -"

"Why question how much I love your son?" Mary cut off the Queen of France. "You know, just as Francis, that I care for him. It is you who does not love me. This is one more attempt to drive me out of France."

"Don't be foolish, Mary. Don't you see?" Catherine tried to approach the young queen. "All I have done that makes me guilty of hostility and plotting is due to this prophecy. You become his Queen and his death is on your hands. You will kill my son!"

The accusations were too much to bear. Mary strode out to find Nostradamus. She needed to see precisely what the prophecy foretold.

—

Bash was striding quickly around the castle grounds, hoping to get far away from the pitying stares he got in the Valois Court. He knew his standing and he knew how little his affairs mattered to the royal family's following. Suddenly, there were hushed whispers everywhere.

There was talk of Diane de Poitiers leaving suddenly for Paris, fallen out of the King's good graces. Surely they considered Sebastian would be poised to leave for that same reason. Indeed, Bash was headed for the stables, prepared to leave tomorrow, but it had much less to do with the current king, and more to do with France's future one. He did not want to stick around for the impromptu wedding, glorious as it was bound to be even as a last-minute event.

Bash could not be there. He would not wait to see Mary promised before God to his brother.

He looked up at the castle with the sun in his eyes. The stinging of the light was a good reminder for the pain that was waiting there for him.

Bash turned his back to the high stone towers to enter the stable.

He never called on the servant boys to bring out his horse, Bash liked to do it himself. He went forth to bring out Argentine, his horse of silver mane. He brought her out of her own stall to clean her at the post outside. It was still early evening and the sun had not yet ducked behind the castle's walls.

He brought the brush down the horse's neck and he felt the animal relaxing under his touch. Bash let his mind wander, perhaps dangerously so. But he was alone and he cared not for staving off his sweetest memories.

He thought of her lips and her warm, brown eyes that sparked with the fight inside of her. Mary was not a queen to him. Queens were not real. They were titles given to pretenders that acted how they were meant to do. Queens were actresses.

But Mary was real to him. She was clever and caring, she let herself feel and she felt for her country and all other undefended creatures. Mary had an energy that pulled him in. It radiated through her. It was not only her beauty that held him. She was so much more.

_'I'm sorry for doing that,' she had said, pulling back from her kiss, more frightened than embarrassed. He took her shoulders, drawing her in. He met her lips with his, not daring to move his hands. He felt her breath quicken against him and he wanted to draw her to him. When she kissed him back, and moved her lips against his, the world melted away. Her fingers raked through his short brown hair, tugging lightly. His heartbeats seemed to be amplified, as if their sound reverberated off of the cool surface of the water to ring across the castle grounds._

_For as loud as he knew his heart was beating, he did not care who heard. All at once he felt reckless in his enjoyment - only he and Mary mattered, the rest be damned!_

He froze beside Argentine, as the horse clopped the ground. Mary's embrace felt far away. Since they had kissed a lot had changed, including Mary's feelings.

'Stop lingering on this,' Bash told himself angrily. Clearly Mary had been vulnerable - she had been drinking and had felt slighted by Francis. She would never choose him over his brother.

While he could never see her as a title, Mary saw this as a strategic union. Maybe Francis did too. If he did, his brother was a fool.

Just then, Bash looked up. The Queen of Scots was coming toward the stables.

"Bash, I need to talk to you," Mary said once she was within earshot.

"What is the matter?" he asked. He dared not let himself hope.


	3. The Lion and The Dragon

"Bash, do you believe in Nostradamus and his prophecies?" the young woman looked up at him with deep brown eyes, widened with terror. There was definitely something she wasn't telling him.

"What is it now?" he replied, stepping away from his horse to face her. "Did he foresee that you'd be happier with the King's other, less legitimate son?"

"Bash!" Mary cried out, hitting his arm. "I'm not here to joke with you!"

Despite her protests a smile was creeping onto her lips. She couldn't help enjoying their banter. He would have never told her how much he meant it, but it was enough to hear her laugh and see her fear leave her face.

"What is it?" Sebastian asked more gently, catching the small fist that had assaulted him moments before. "Mary, tell me what's wrong."

"It's Francis. It's me... I cannot... marry Francis," Mary spoke softly, fighting to keep her voice even. "Not without costing him his life."

"That sounds like nonsense," Bash shook his head.

"It is the truth," she pleaded, begging him to humor her. "Nostradamus had a very elaborate vision; my union with Francis is prophesized to end in his blood not long after we are married. Can I simply refuse to pay such warning any attention?"

Bash stepped back and held her at arms-length, searching her face for a clue. Is this what she believed?

'Could she be looking for an excuse to step away from the betrothal?' he couldn't help himself thinking. Whatever it was, he had to be honest with her.

"Mary, my brother would never believe something like this."

"I am well aware. And if I told him he may just talk me out of it," she said looking at her hands, as if searching for answers. "Bash, I'm here because I know you wouldn't do that. I need help getting some answers."

He told her the truth. Nostradamus was eerily correct most of the time. It hurt him to see her biting her lip nervously. He hated making her uneasy, even indirectly.

"But, Mary, you must know that all that is prophesized by him is not always interpreted as black and white," Bash added.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"We assign our own significance to the details that the Great Seer shares. When you assign your own meaning, it is easily misplaced. Maybe it has nothing to do with you, maybe Francis is meant to die for some-"

"How dare you bring this up like this? How dare you brush off his inevitable demise?" she chastised him sharply.

"I apologize, my Queen," Bash said darkly, "but all of our ends are inevitable. Royals are not gods, no matter hoe many legitimate claims to power that they can make."

Mary raised her arm again to strike him- her blood boiled from his relaxed acceptance of his brother's fate. But Bash was quicker.

He caught her wrist and took advantage of the fact that he caught her on the balls of her feet - he pushed himself toward her, making her lose balance and trapping her against the stable doors. Her left arm was pinned between them, the other he had caught above her head. Mere moments separated them, their lips drawn close as he had bent down above her. Bash felt her anger fluttering, trapped, in her chest, her breasts rising quickly her shoulder twitching, testing his grip.

He smiled. She would still hit him if she let go.

"I won't release you until you acknowledge your own mortality," he smirked.

Mary could feel his words dance on her lips. She stared up into his pale green eyes and read the kindness in them and the protectiveness he felt toward her. Suddenly she realized that while he had trapped her against the door, he had not restrained her mouth.

The tension remained in her body, but her energy had changed and Bash could feel it. Her eyes seemed darker and her lips were parted, definitely not in protest. He wasn't sure he was reading her well...

But before he could decide what was happening, Mary dropped her arm, withdrawing from him.

'It is foolish to want this. I do not want this' Mary told herself.

"You shouldn't stand so close to me," she warned him.

He apologized, stepping backwards toward his horse. They did not look at each other for a time. Then he asked her for the full details of the prophecy.

Nostradamus had foreseen her childless, with Francis dead. One of her ladies was to die before the first frost of the year. And the blood would be from his ear. There may have been other images, but none of those had been shared.

"You know, it is odd, the Seer had made an odd claim before I accepted Sir Thomas's engagement," Mary told him. "He had said 'the dragon would fall to the lion on a field of poppies.' I had thought this meant to symbolize the blood on Scottish land. But in the end, I never attacked the British with Thomas's forces..."

Bash looked at her carefully, trying to make sense of her words. He did not like thinking of Thomas, the bastard of the king of Portugal who had almost swept out of the Valois Court with Mary in tow. But what could she have meant? He smiled after a beat.

"It is as I said," he reminded her. "The words of Nostradamus are easily misrepresented. That rogue, Thomas, he was felled in this forest, in a meadow of poppies. They were everywhere when Francis and I confronted him."

Mary looked at him quizzically.

"You know, as bastards, Thomas and I have the benefit of getting to choose our own banner," Bash said, taking out his sword. "Thomas had chosen the dragon, and I chose this when I became of age," he said, showing Mary the gold hilt of his sword.

"The lion," Mary whispered, touching the cold sword hilt. "But, why? Why did you kill him?"

She looked into his green eyes, searching for a meaning.

"I would have done anything to protect you," Bash told her frankly, returning the sword to the scabbard at his waist.

Mary stepped closer, meeting the gap between them. Her eyes shone with early tears, looking up at him imploringly.

"Why do you ever chose to fight for me Bash?" she asked softly. "You're always there for me. I am... so grateful. But I cannot forgive myself to risk your life."

Bash didn't reply, his mouth set in a firm line.

"You had faced Thomas with Francis badly hurt... hurt because of me, moreover, after I sent you ahead as a messenger and you rode alone into an ambush. You have already bled for me."

"Would I not do it still?" he said, searching her face for understanding. Surely she had to know. "Mary, I do it because you are worth the fight and the risk of my own sorry life. You are always worthy. And always worth it."

They stood there close for a while. The sun had dipped behind the castle, and the sky was lit in pinks and oranges on the horizon. Mary moved first, nodding her head curtly.

"I thank you for your counsel concerning the Seer." Her gratefulness cracked his heart in pieces. Her hurried steps back to the castle crushed the remaining bits.

—

Much later that evening, Mary found herself walking the corridors to Francis's rooms, in her pale nightgown. She had made that trip the night before, in the wake of the Italian invasion of the French Court.

"Francis," she called softly.

Her young fiancé smiled brightly as he opened the door, letting her slip inside. He was sure to take in the small amount of clothing that Mary was wearing. He did not see her worry and her anxiety, only her beauty.

He took her in his arms before the door had swung closed behind her.

Mary had an agenda. She ha come to discuss the prophecy Nostradamus had made for them. Bash, like Catherine, had warned her against sharing the prophecy with the Dauphin, but Mary could not bear the burden alone anymore. After all, the prophecy had to do with two people.

"Francis, I need you to listen to me, now," she whispered into his neck, refusing to leave from his embrace.

He did not laugh at her words, he sensed how serious she was and how uncertain she felt, anchored by him in a chaos of falling stars and burning omens.

It did not take her long to fee tears falling down. Francis needed to understand that he could be collateral damage to their union.

"I love you, Francis, and I can't lose you forever, even if it means I have to let go of you now," she said tiredly, sitting down on the bed behind her.

"Mary I cannot pretend I believe in the Seer's power," he told her kneeling down before her.

She tried to look away, panicked that she had failed to explain the gravity of the prophecy. He took her chin in his hand.

"I believe in us," Francis told her. He bent forward to kiss the tears on her face.

He gently put his hands on each side of her head, meeting her eyes. She felt exhausted by the rumors of the day. But when he pledged his love to her, she said he loved him too. Loved him in spite of what lay in waiting in their futures.

He lay her on his bed, hovering abode her as he kissed her cheeks softly to catch stray tears. His hands slipped under the silk underlayer of her gown, gripping her hips. Mary found the energy in herself that had been drained from her today. She found Francis's lips and captured them in her own with a burning need.

He kissed her back with matched intensity, gliding his hand up her curves. She helped him remove her gown. He held the back of her head, bringing her closer to him, as the kiss deepened.

He leaned her back into his ornate covers, tracing his hand from the base of her throat to her navel. She arched her back at his warm, electric touch.

Mary looked into his eyes, the corners of her mouth turned into a smile.

"I want you, Francis," she whispered.

He stood to pull over his own garments, before bending down to cup her breast as she plunged her tongue into his mouth. Breaking for air, he leaned on his forearm hovering above her, taking in the flush of her skin and the sprawl of her long dark locks.

"And you may have me, Mary. I am all yours, for as long as I shall live."

He kissed her neck, teasing at the delicate skin, missing the tears that begun to form again in his lover's eyes.

Mary lost herself in him.

**A\N: I know a lot of fanfic writes Bash as having blue eyes. Am I "crazy or colorblind? They look totally green to me on the show.**

**Let me know if there is not enough of the juicy details or if perhaps it is too graphic and taking away from the characters. Going into this I totally ship Bash and Mary, but the tragedy of them not ending up together is still juicy and amazing in its own kinda torturous way.**

**Bash is beautiful. Reviews are too.**


	4. Ignoring the Queen

Francis ran a thumb along Mary's cheek, hoping not to wake her. He couldn't help himself from touching her lovely skin. Mary still seemed to be sleeping nestled against his chest, peacefully. He wished it could be like this forever.

Her eyelids fluttered as the sunlight began to stream through to the canopy bed. She felt him kiss her head as she murmured her good-morning's.

"Good morning, my bride," Francis replied.

Mary bit her lip. She loved how safe she felt in his embrace, but could Francis protect them from the future that was headed for them?

"Francis, we still need to talk," Mary told him seriously, trying to swivel herself to face him.

Francis laughed out loud when she found herself twisted in the bed sheets, but he stopped on seeing the firm line of her mouth and the sadness imploring him in her eyes.

"Mary, why are you worried?"

"Because I love you and I want you forever, as you, not the future King of France, and... and I know I cannot protect you from everything-"

He put a finger to her lips. "Your Grace, I do believe I am here for your protection," he told her with a smile on his lips. However Mary jerked her face away when he tried to kiss her.

"Francis, you cannot pacify me with your kisses," Mary attempted to say this sternly, all the while as a smile tugged at her lips.

"I accept this challenge," Francis said, his lips finding her neck.

Nuzzling her, he persisted lower to place kisses along her collarbone as she laughed, calling his name.

The servants had already been sent away and the morning was theirs. As far as Francis was concerned, they ought to pick up exactly where they left off last night. He scowled when he felt himself being pushed away.

"I respect that you don't heed the prophecy," Mary told him, trying to pull away from under him, "but I feel you are not respecting me by muting me and my worries."

Francis just looked at her dumbly.

"I fear for your life, which as a matter of fact, is put in danger by me," she told him. "I need you to take my worries seriously, if we are to be wed."

"But you are fretting over something stupid, like what my little brothers might be worried about," he spoke quickly, trying to reach for her again, to quiet her lips and her mind.

"This is not how this works, Francis. You do not get the last word."

"I will when I'm king!" he spat, frustrated to see her leave his bed.

"Well, until then, I am queen," Mary said gathering herself, "and you are nothing but impossible."

She strode away quickly, before Francis could even move the hair out of his eyes.

—

"Tell me, do you love your half-brother, Sebastian?"

Bash froze on his way to the throne room. He had not heart the heavy gilded skirts trailing behind him. More importantly, he had never heard the Queen of France address him.

He turned on his heel and dipped quickly in a bow before Catherine.

"Very much, Your Grace," Bash told her meeting her steeled gaze.

"And yet... you covet his bride?" her gaze froze him to his core. He thought of Francis - he knew he was uncomfortable but he had forgiven him after sacrificing a life for her in the Blood Wood.

"There is no such suspicion on my brother's part," he told Catherine, holding his head up. He intended those words to be assuring, but she saw the noose forming around his bastard-neck.

She threw in a false smile, but did not dismiss him.

"Is there something else you need answered?" Bash said with impatience creeping into his voice. He did not fear Catherine, but she knew how difficult she could make his life and his mother's.

"Why are you looking for the king?" she asked plainly.

"I seek Father," he told her coldly, "to bid my adieu. I wish to leave from Court."

"Alone?" Catherine raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," he said, looking back from her. "Maybe to rejoin my mother in Paris," he added when her gaze did not leave him. Something about Catherine's presence tethered a man to his place.

"Sebastian," she said with queenly airs, "I wasn't accusing you, I wanted to know where you stood on the matters. I would think you a simple fool to leave the palace without your dearest possession, one that I am told is already in your grasp: the Queen of Scots."

Sebastian's jaw tightened as he kneeled in front of her.

"I beg Your Majesty not to consider other royals as objects to possess," he spoke fiercely. "I should think that term is more appropriate for the nothings of the court, like myself." He nodded without looking up and stood up to take his leave.

But Catherine wasn't through with him.

"Who possesses whom is not my concern," she called after him, "I know what is on your mind and I only wish you were bold enough to make both of your dreams come true."

The bastard striding away from her may have refused to acknowledge her last point, but Catherine smiled to herself. She knew there were more than a few ways to break up a wedding. If only that tall, gangly, dark-haired thorn in her side would free itself and make away with her other major problem. He could take her away from French Court and go to Scotland... who knows? He could ruin her, for all Catherine cared. There were plenty of other prospects left for her handsome son to turn to.

Prospects that wouldn't bring about a premature death.

**A\N: You can bet Mary and Bash are about to run into one another when they are at their most vulnerable. But what will happen? Should Francis be forgiven?**  
><strong>I hate the idea that Mary only chooses Bash to save Francis. He is so much better and dreamier.. and okay, I'm just fan-girl-king now and I'll <strong>

**Thank you for all your encouraging reviews! It's great to hear from you all!**


End file.
